Who: Shadowcat; tag Colossus When: October 11th, 2008 (early evening) Where: Xavier's; second floor What: To assimilate or differentiate Status: in progress Rating: PG-13
She had bruises on her arms, face and shoulders; the doctors offered to speed her recovery, but she rejected, saying there were more important issues at hand than bruises, she would be fine, take care of the others, they still needed help. Stumbling back into her room, she found remembering even where her bedroom was a problem, but eventually, she came across a familiar door, entered it, and found her posters, computer, books, bed - all exactly the same as she left it. Collapsing on her bed, she cried silently into her hands, muffled gasps and sniffling the only sounds. The sameness was overwhelming. She should have protected them - everyone. She should have. Why didn't she? Did she know this would happen? No, of course not, no one knew. It was an ambush. Right? Then why did no one heed the telepaths' warnings? They should have never entered.. She should have been able to save them all. At least herself and Colossus, both of them should have been dragging out the wounded and fully healthy themselves. That was her job right? Defense? Protection? It was her power - her purpose. God gave that power to her for a reason. At least they weren't dead, and it had lead to Hank's return - and another lie from Xavier. She would have been joyed, but the doctor had not shared the story of a pleasant sabbatical. She wanted to get out of here, fade into the distance and never stop. Wake up. Have someone pop out and scream, 'Just kidding!' Anything.
She dreamt of nothingness. When she woke, she laid in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her Star of David lay alone on her beside table. She found herself numb, unable to even think of the realities of the upcoming weeks - months, maybe. Years. She could hear a television downstairs, someone playing a movie, the thumps of running upstairs, ticks of a computer keyboard next door. The sun streamed through the window, hitting the side of her bed, and when she moved to lie on her side and suppress the thumping sounds of the living, her skin made contact with the light. A tingle progressed into a burn, then a singe, and she suddenly found herself falling; she reached up to grab, but her fingers went through the floor - now the ceiling - and she hit a wood floor, as if she were pubescent again, back in Chicago, as if she had just manifested. How unfamiliar.
Lying on the floor, half in disbelief, half in apathy, she remained still, until the peeking eyes of teenagers poked over the back of the couch, staring down at her, squeaking, loud voices asking if she was alright. Hello Mr. Headache. "I'm fine," she grunted, sitting up and rubbing her back, "Shut up. I'm fine. Christ." Children. She fell; what more to the story was there? Standing to her feet, she felt light-headed but shook it off and trudged on, noticing with annoyance her muscles were sore. She needed to stretch them or something. Take aspirin. As she passed Peter's door, she hesitated. Had he been released from the doctors yet? (Maybe he had Excedrin.) Without a second thought other than 'I should check,' she knocked on the door, a bit softly. There were too many sounds in this place anyway. After a moment, she impatiently knocked again.